


Monster Cock

by Octinary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Best Friends, Character Study, Gen, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: Jaskier has questions about monster anatomy.  The other witchers have questions about Geralt’s choice in travel companions.  Geralt has answers.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 125
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #015





	Monster Cock

“How come drowners don’t have cocks?”

Geralt looked up from where he was working, harvesting the useful organs from a dead drowner to stare at Jaskier incredulously for a whole eight of his own slow heartbeats. The other man was standing over a different corpse, far enough away so as to not risk his shoes, but close enough that he could in fact see the piece of anatomy he was discussing. Or rather, couldn’t see. He did not seem particularly perturbed to be the object of Geralt’s incredulous attention, merely raising a brow in response and waiting for a real answer. The witcher turned his attention back to the task at hand, shaking his head in bemusement. “Do you know in my whole life I’ve only had a handful of conversations about monster genitalia-”

“Oh this should be good. Every time you start a sentence with ‘in my day’ or ‘in my tragically long life’ it always somehow ends up as an insult.”

“-and every single one of them has been started by you.”

“Ha! I don’t believe that for a minute!” Jaskier had one hand on his hip and used the other to gesture dramatically at Geralt’s current activities. “You harvest everything! Brains, livers, teeth, tongues, bone marrow, blood, claws, hearts, various… fluids.” As if the bard could tell that Geralt was beginning to tune out his litany he took a few steps closer, moving out of the orbit of the (mostly) intact monster towards the partially dissected one. He pointed accusingly at the bloody witcher. “And! And you eat them.”

“I don’t-”

“You do! I’ve seen you!”

“Some of them are ingredients in potions but-”

“Which you eat.”

“Drink.”

“Consume. So don’t tell me that witcher lore doesn’t have anything to say about monster cock. Or the lack thereof, I suppose.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, somewhat appalled to discover how unannoyed he actually was. Jaskier was looking smug, clearly of the opinion he had won this argument, but that seemed impossible. After all, Geralt didn’t feel like he had lost anything. “They aren’t actually drowned humans.”

“What?” 

“Drowners. They aren’t actually reanimated drowned humans. They’re a separate species entirely. From the Convergence.”

“Really?”

Geralt tipped the drowner’s head up so its neck was more easily visible and gestured with his knife for Jaskier to come closer. Tentatively, still more careful with his shoes than he had been with his life earlier when Geralt had told him to stay away from the nest in the first place, he did creep closer for a better view. “See? Gills.”

The bard scoffed. “Yes, but I’ve seen humans get cursed and turn into things and grow new body parts on multiple occasions. Werewolves and so on.”

“Sure, but why would a dead person need to breathe?”

Jaskier looked pensive, but couldn’t immediately see a hole in that logic. “Okay, so they’re not dead people, hence different anatomy. But they still must have to breed somehow. I mean there are always more of the damn things.” He spoke as if he were the weary one who was frequently tasked with clearing out infestations of them, not the one who still tagged along, somehow perpetually eager as ever to get a glimpse of the witcher in action.

Geralt shrugged. “Not my area of expertise. They train us to decrease the population, not increase it.”

“Really?” Jaskier crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes in over exaggerated mock suspicion. “You’d think as a sapient apex predator you’d be more concerned about the proliferation of your feeder species. After all, we humans quickly developed the whole science of husbandry to keep us in cows and chickens and sheep and such.”

The bard was skirting dangerously close to a sensitive argument. It wasn’t hard for Geralt to recall the accusing eyes of grieving villagers, wondering why every few years they had to pay him to remove the same types of infestations, wondering if he, who profited off their desperate need, didn’t have anything to do with its perpetration, even as they sullenly handed over whatever they had managed to scrounge up to pay him. Oddly though, despite being consciously aware they were flirting with an uncomfortable topic of conversation, he didn’t find himself faltering and defaulting into a non-committal hmm as he once would have, or likely still would have with almost anyone else. He knew it was something about Jaskier, something about how he had come to know that the man talked like he danced: lightly, and somewhat recklessly, but quick to apologize whenever he, in his exuberance, stepped on any unwitting toes. So instead of bristling, he just sat back on his haunches, resting his arms on his knees and stared steadily at Jaskier. “We don’t eat-”

“Yes, yes.” Jaskier waved away the rest of the argument, as always, taking Geralt’s point, spoken and unspoken, keenly and quickly. “Dismissing, for the moment, the question of whether there is any functional difference between eating and drinking" -the bard gave the witcher a very pointed look- "which there is not for the record" -Geralt rolled his eyes in response- "I will at least give you that monster parts are not your primary source of nutrition. More akin to an optional supplement for inducing exceptional effects, I suppose. Although even if I tried to compare your brewing of perception altering substances to its less witchery human equivalent, that wouldn’t be a terribly fair comparison either, given how I know you yourself prefer beer to Blizzard, vodka to various decoctions and wine to White Rafford’s.” The bard grinned and preened for Geralt’s approval, pleased with his own turn of phrase.

“Couldn’t think of a potion name that started with ‘v,’ could you?”

“Is there even one?” His voice raised in exasperation, before he quickly asked honestly and eagerly, “Because if there is, you do have to tell me. That's not a bad little bit of wit, if I do say so myself, and it has the potential to be immortalized in a ballad, or perhaps a poem. It would be a crime against art itself if you let it stand like that while knowing it could be improved upon.”

Geralt, not particularly troubled by the prospect of offending a disembodied amorphous concept, not to mention also unaware of any potion that started with the letter ‘v,’ turned back to his dissection.

“I thought so.” Jaskier, magnanimous in his victory again, hummed as he wandered amongst the felled monsters. He crouched down for a closer look at one of them, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “I suppose they could breed like fish? You never see a fish with a cock either. Don’t they just” -he flicked his fist open like a flower blooming- “release clouds of tiny eggs or something? But the papa fish, cockless as he is, still must be involved in the process somehow, mustn’t he? Otherwise, why bother having two sexes of fish at all? Just have one and be done with it, like the mythical phoenix, hatching from its own egg. Or, in the case of our unwanted Convergence caused pests here, like a common weed spreading copies of itself prolifically through decent gardens. Although, come to think of it, you never see tits on a drowner either. Maybe there is more of flower than of fish to them. I wonder…”

It was not a train of conversation Geralt would have ever embarked on on his own, but he couldn't honestly profess to being entirely uninterested in the diversion. While Jaskier was quick to sing the praises of his species' accomplishments, neither biology nor animal husbandry were accounted among the much vaunted seven liberal arts the bard frequently professed to have mastered - there was a decent chance that Geralt knew, or at least had, when he was actively being schooled, known more on both subjects - but Jaskier was a clever man and charming orator, a sentiment his hearty ego did not need to hear aloud, and Geralt was curious to see where his unbridled imagination was going with this line of thought. Besides, the work went quicker when covered by light chatter, so after letting the man muse in silence for a minute, Geralt prodded him to continue aloud. “Planning on writing a treatise on monster breeding?”

“Ha!” Jaskier laughed brightly. “I should, shouldn’t I? No more of this mucking about in swamps. Cut the problem off at the source so to speak. Do you have drowners in your lake or pond? Just boil the water thoroughly, cooking the clouds of little monsters before they grow up to eat anyone.”

“You might also cook all the fish.”

“Ah, well. No one said ridding the world of monsters wouldn’t come at a cost. And it is only my first edition; perhaps some of the techniques will need to be further refined.” He smiled lightly. “But I’ll put you out of work yet, witcher.”

“What of the monsters that don’t breed? The ghosts and spectres and gargoyles. The chimeras mages create to guard their treasures or to test the limits of their chaos.” Geralt tried to lead their dance away from the topic of his potential retirement - a strong point of contention between them and not a fight he wanted to have right now.

Jaskier went along willingly, happy to be led, but spinning further than Geralt could have anticipated. “Really? There are some crazed magicians somewhere just, you know, stitching animals together and seeing if it sticks?”

“It’s how they made witchers.” Which was not, now that Geralt was thinking of it, a much happier topic of conversation. He had instinctively flinched away from one quagmire only to find himself stumbling headlong into another. Despite the years of practice, he was still far from an accomplished dancer.

But Jaskier, as light on his feet as ever, was having none of it. "Oh, come on. Leave off of that, now. They didn't just stitch you together out of spare parts. Eye of werewolf and fang of manticore, claw of wyvern and-" Jaskier's whole demeanor brightened as he thought of the obvious joke at just about the same time as Geralt did.

The witcher hefted a handful of innards threateningly. "Don't. Don't you dare-"

"Cock of monster! Oh, that is definitely making it into my next ballad of your exploits! I’ve heard the expression ‘hung like a horse,’ but are you hung like a chort, Geralt?" Jaskier dissolved into giggles for the amount of time it took the wad of hurled viscera to travel the distance between them and splatter against his doublet and cheek, then he squawked indignantly. "Oh! Oh yuck! Oh gods, that is wretched!" He wiped the mess off his face quickly, pulling a disgusted face. "Fuck, some of that got in my mouth!"

Geralt almost laughed, he could feel it bubbling up in his chest, but, like with most deep emotions he recognized, it seemed to lose energy as it ascended and by the time it reached his face it was merely a smirk and an amused head shake. "I warned you against finishing that sentence."

"Ugh. How do you eat this stuff?"

“I don’t eat-”

“Whatever. Drink.”

"Mix it with strong alcohol."

"And that makes it taste better?" Jaskier looked doubtful. 

"No, but it makes you care less." He finished collecting what he needed and waded out of the swamp towards where their packs lay on the ground at Roach's feet.

Jaskier huffed a small laugh and joined him, wiping his hands on Geralt's shirt. He made a big show of it, smirking and obviously looking for a reaction from the witcher, but Geralt was already about as covered with monster innards as he could get without being eaten by one, so he didn’t flinch away and denied Jaskier the pleasure of making him squirm.

Jaskier frowned at his hands. If possible, after contact with the witcher, they seemed to be more slimy than before. He gave up, for the moment, on actively annoying Geralt and brushed them against his trousers, obviously having resigned this outfit as a lost cause, despite his earlier carefulness. Hands clean, he pulled out his notebook and started to jot down whatever was flitting through his head. Gods willing, it was just about the hunt and not about Geralt’s dick. As he wrote, Jaskier was still occasionally wrinkling his nose and spitting, the offensive taste of drowner intestine clearly lingering on his palate. Catching Geralt's amused look as he grimaced, he added, almost as an aside, "Ugh. Damn stuff lingers. It must be very strong alcohol indeed.”

Which, yes, it usually was. Geralt even had some in his potion bag now, ready to be blended with his ample stash of dried herbs and the freshly harvested organs, a bottle of- Oh. Now there was an idea to clear Jaskier’s mind of any errant monster cock related melodies. Studiously keeping a straight face, Geralt muttered “Hm,” rummaged in his bag to find the bottle of red tinged liquid, and offered it to the bard.

Jaskier took it without hesitation. A drink from a bag full of poison and he just downed it, no questions asked. Geralt knew most people would not have done that, would not have even taken the thing from him. But Jaskier wasn’t most people. And Geralt was willing to take horrible unmerciful advantage of that fact. It was not poison, nor a potion, of course, although given Jaskier’s dislike of spicy things he might have hyperbolically insisted that he would have preferred the gruesome death either of those would have offered over what he actually got: a particularly potent hot pepper vodka.

“Ahh!” Jaskier flung the empty bottle away from himself and clutched his throat coughing. Red was visibly creeping up cheeks and his eyes were watering. “What the fuck?” He was making a ridiculous face as he was sticking his tongue out and panting frantically, waving at it with both hands, trying to cool the offended appendage with airflow.

The feeling came on too quick, even years of ruthless training couldn’t smother it: Geralt laughed. “How are you still alive? You just drink anything anyone gives you? No questions?”

“I drank one thing you gave me, you absolute monster!”

He’d been called a monster in many contexts, but this had to be the first time it made him smile. To be fair, when Jaskier said it, it didn't sound cruel as much as it did fond. In an attempted act of mercy, Geralt got another vial from the bag and offered it to the distressed bard, who just narrowed his eyes, lesson clearly learned, and didn’t take it. Geralt shook his head in amazement. “Now you’re cautious?”

“Once bitten.” Jaskier could not have looked more betrayed.

Geralt raised a brow, popped the cork and took a sip.

The bard seemed determined to suffer indignantly. “Nuh-uh! That proves nothing! You were planning on drinking whatever that horrid fire water was!”

“By all the gods, this is White Honey. It is one of the few things in this bag that won’t kill you and the only thing in this bag I would actually recommend drinking. Just take it. It will help. Trust me.” 

Still obviously wounded, Jaskier finally complied. The red started to fade from his cheeks and his heart rate slowed to a more reasonable pace. Geralt offered him the wineskin next and the bard looked mostly mollified. Hopefully that meant he would have forgotten…

“Don’t think you’ve gotten out of anything. They’re going to be singing about your dick in every tavern in Temeria by harvest.” Jaskier could be a very cruel sulk.

He was never going to hear the end of it from his brothers. They already thought him addled for traveling with Jaskier in the first place. Eskel was worried about him, concerned he was hanging everything on this relationship, sure he was going to get his heart broken when Jaskier inevitably died: naturally or accidentally. His brother thought he was hopelessly in love, and maybe he was, but if so it wasn’t like any other love he’d ever had. There wasn’t a sense of uncontrollable physical urgency to their relationship, or of shared unspeakable trauma, or inexorable webs of destiny weaving them together. Any bonds they had they’d forged themselves, willingly, in shared campfires and conversations that spun like Redanian reels and the quiet exchange of care. And, even given Jaskier’s mortality, nothing about it felt hopeless.

Vesemir thought he was just lonely and sad, playing at being human. The old witcher, still mourning the loss of the schools, the structure and the society that spawned them, saw Geralt’s dalliance with Jaskier almost as a kind of betrayal: that Geralt thought he could shed the mantle of Wolf witcher entirely and slip into the sheepskin of errant knight, complete with a foppish troubadour to act as herald. But Geralt never felt he had to play human around the bard; if anything, Jaskier was happy to learn his differences. Jaskier didn’t balk at talk of potions or monsters, didn’t flinch when his eyes were black and skin was ashen, didn’t grouse any more over the witcher dissecting a drowner than he did the dressing of a deer. Granted, the bard’s songs were frequently fanciful works of fiction, so Geralt could see why Vesemir might think that Geralt had been putting on airs, but the dramatic embellishments were all Jaskier. Despite not always recognizing himself in the finished product, Geralt did feel that when they were actually together Jaskier saw him clearly for what he was, the individual in the ideal, just as Geralt himself had long since become immune to the bard's dazzling persona and could clearly see the person beneath the poet.

Lambert seemed to think he was just weak, cowardly seeking a pretty lie in Jaskier’s fairy tales and ignoring the harsh truth of reality around him. Furious, as he frequently was, Lambert had cornered Geralt once one winter at Kaer Morhen and accusingly asked him what he thought he was actually doing. Did Jaskier’s singing or dancing do anything to decrease the number of actual monsters in the world, human or inhuman? Did the bard not just perpetuate the harmful myth that happy endings were something to be expected and that witchers all were happy heroes willingly throwing their lives away for the so-called greater good of humanity? Was he not just lying to himself, closing his eyes and pretending the darkness didn’t exist? Geralt hadn’t been able to explain it then to his seething brother; he wasn’t even sure he could have adequately explained the slow, small steps from who he had been to who he was now to his own younger self, raw and wounded by the world, let alone anyone else. But he was learning the words to do so now in little moments like this, in walking companionably back to town towards a good meal and a hot bath, in banter and pranks, in lightheartedly losing little games of wordplay and effortlessly forgiving and being forgiven for accidental missteps.

It wasn’t that Jaskier being here meant that the next time he suspected drowners he wasn’t going to remember the look in the eyes of the widow who had posted this contract or the crying of her orphaned children. It wasn’t that he wasn’t going to remember earlier drowner contracts or the consequences thereof, kids like Lambert sold to witcher schools for so many exterminated beasts. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t remember unwanted babies left to disappear on riverbanks, or criminals eaten alive as punishment, or any of the other hundred awful associations he had with the damn things. It just meant that he was also going to remember a companionable evening, a bad joke and, when Jaskier inevitably composed it, an infuriatingly catchy song about monster cock.

It wasn’t about less darkness. It was about more light.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr ([octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com)) if you want to chat!


End file.
